Speechless

by Adam P. Schmitt

  Kits ripped open, tools clamored, and voices fell quiet as the Young Engineers dove into their work.

  I felt pretty good about my idea. I knew the stealth bomber was one of the fastest planes, so I decided to mimic that design. I dumped my bag of scissors, black paint, and a few other additions that I thought would give me a fighting chance, and got to work.

  First the paint. I was smart enough to know it’d need time to dry. I could work on the other parts while that happened. I laid out the hammer and nails, ready to use them while the paint dried.

  “Perfect. Yes,” Patrick said to himself while his scissors meticulously cut away at a sheet of sticker paper. A couple of finished shapes were already on the table. I had no idea what they were, but they seemed to make sense to him. His supply bag was turned on its side, empty. Besides the sticker paper, all he had was a key chain with a little ghost attached. He wasn’t doing anything to the structure of the glider, only decorating it. He didn’t stand a chance. Not my problem. I continued to focus on my own work while monitoring the clock.

  With my paint now dry, I could fashion the wings to look like a stealth bomber. Ten minutes left: plenty of time to attach them and add some weight to the front for an extra boost. Patrick could waste all the time he wanted on decorations; mine would soar.

  “Time! Everyone to the launcher!” announced the proud owner of the launching machine. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s fly some gliders!” This guy really loved tonight.

  My stealth bomber sat in front of me, facing Patrick’s mess of white stickers on wings. I was pretty happy with my work, until it sat across from Patrick’s. Now I loved it. Various zigs and zags cluttered his wings in no recognizable pattern. The little ghost was off the key chain and glued clumsily to the top. He deserved whatever ridicule was coming his way.

  “Third-graders! Form a line behind me!” the Launch Coordinator commanded. We hurried into a clustered line with our creations at the ready.

  The launchpad claimed the far end of the gym. One of the volunteer dads stood ready in the flight path with masking tape. He’d write the Young Engineer’s name on a piece, then mark the spot where their glider hit the floor.

  Two boys were ahead of me. The first launch of the night was a success for a fleeting moment before the wings separated from the body. A failure. He took it well though. The second glider flew no better but did manage to keep the wings intact a little longer.

  My turn. I no longer wanted to win as much as not be embarrassed by having it fall apart. I handed over my product, careful to not drop it in the exchange. It rested in the launchpad, awaiting the nudge from the Launch Coordinator. With my jaw clenched, I watched my stealth bomber take to the air and stay afloat for a respectable distance.

  A hand patted my shoulder as my landing was marked. “All right! Looks like you’re the man to beat so far! Great flight!”

  I was in the lead. Only two other kids had gone, but I was winning for a moment and it felt amazing. Applause for my flight followed the Launch Coordinator’s comments. I got why he liked his role so much.

  By the time the rest of my age group went, I was a distant fourth. The girl next in line outsailed my glider by several feet, as did the two other boys. Still, mine had worked, and that was a victory.

  Only one third-grader remained in line: Patrick. He’d never waited to be the last person in a line. This was new.

  Patrick handed his mess of a glider over to be placed in the launcher. As soon as it left his hands, he stopped the room.

  “Wait!” Patrick exclaimed with his arms extended like a traffic cop. “Turn off the lights!”

  “What?” the Launch Coordinator asked. “We can’t. We won’t be able to see where it lands.”

  “Yes, you will! I promise! Please?”

  Patrick said please? What was he up to? He must have been thinking about this all week. The Launch Coordinator paused for a moment, moved his jaw around, and showed empathy to the boy asking for a special privilege.

  “All right, but if we can’t spot the landing, that’s it. No second chance.”

  He didn’t finish his sentence before Patrick was running to the light switch.

  “Three-two-one, go!” he yelled in dramatic fashion while all light left the gym. It would’ve been completely dark if not for the glow coming from Patrick’s glider.

  “Welcome to Area 51!” he shouted. None of us could see him, but his voice told us he was smiling big. This was the moment he’d seen in his head for a week.

  The ordinary paper he’d surgically cut and pasted to his glider was glow-in-the-dark material. He didn’t just slap it on the wings; it made a design that was Patrick’s take on alien language. The little ghost he put on top also showed bright on the wings. The murmurs of “Cool!” “Wow!” and “Awesome!” came from the Young Engineers waiting their turn. In the light, it was a mess of a glider. In the dark, it impressed everyone.

  “Very nice!” the Launch Coordinator announced. “Now let’s see how she flies! Ready and . . . go!”

  Patrick’s glider took to the air with our eyes tracking the only light in the room. Without the other markers visible, none of us could really tell how successful the flight was. When it did make contact with the ground, the tiny pilot was thrown from the craft. I heard Patrick’s footsteps clamoring toward his creation as the lights returned.

  The volunteer marking distance was on one knee setting the tape with Patrick’s name. While the look was impressive, the flight distance was not. Four pieces of tape were well ahead of Patrick’s, including mine. Patrick’s dream of victory was over.

  That didn’t diminish his smile. Patrick picked up his craft and marched it back to our table.

  “Sorry, man,” I said, offering condolences. “Good try, but I think your pilot hurt your flight. Too heavy.”

  He smiled even bigger.

  “Uh, you didn’t even beat mine,” I said, in case he needed reminding that mine was better.

  “I know.”

  “Looks like you won’t win the trophy,” I replied, with his overconfident claim still in my head.

  “That wasn’t the prize I was trying for.”

  It took me a second, but then I got it. Patrick knew he would never make a glider that could beat the kids with three years of experience. So did I, but part of me hoped there was a miracle chance. Patrick was smarter. He’d put all his eggs in the creativity prize basket. And he nailed it. Jealousy turned my attention back to the launch without a response.

  For the next few minutes, we watched the older groups take their turns. As expected, the distance of the gliders increased with age and experience. A couple of girls had a commanding lead with their tape markers, but none came close to the showmanship of my cousin.

  Finally, it was the sixth-graders’ turn. As expected, the first glider from the group soared past all other markers. Three years of experience counted for something. Eight more in the oldest group still had a chance to beat him, though.

  The next sixth-grader hurriedly made his way to the launcher. In his excitement, he misread the handoff to the Launch Coordinator. We witnessed a crash before takeoff, as his glider lay at his feet, wounded with a broken wing. Even though he was one of the oldest kids there, it didn’t stop the gush of public tears. His father, the Launch Coordinator, quickly came to his aid, consoling his son and scooping up the lost bird. The Young Engineer, fragile as his blue-and-white glider, sobbed while his dad led him back to their table.

  “Hal, hey, let someone else go, and we’ll try and salvage this,” he announced to the man with marking tape. One of the moms stepped up to the launcher for the next flight, while the Launch Coordinator produced a screwdriver and tape to save the glider. His son was howling and inconsolable. I could tell it wasn’t the first time the father and son had been here.

  The remaining gliders took flight, and the top prizes were clear. After the final marking hit the floor, the dad of the broken glider returned.

  “Got it! All se
t!” he announced while leading his son to the launcher. The boy’s eye sockets were stained red as he halfheartedly joined his dad. His glider did make it to the launcher this time, but only flew about half as far as the others in his group. His dad’s positive pat on the shoulder only jump-started more tears.

  “All right, everyone! Fantastic job to all the Young Engineers tonight!” he announced cheerfully, despite his sobbing sidekick. “If everyone could clean up the stations, tape, and anything else while the leaders confer, that would be great. Trophies will be handed out as soon as the gym looks ready.”

  The Young Engineers took to task but with no sense of urgency. We all knew who the winners were. The two girls and boy with the farthest tape markers took their time picking them up while admiring their achievement. Their parents, shaking hands of congratulations, stood directly behind them.

  One Young Engineer moved with energy, though. Patrick. He was about to get the first award of his life. He was smiling with his whole face while cleaning up, waiting for his moment. I was still mad that he had done something smarter than me.

  A few minutes later, the floor was free of tape, the tables cleaned, and only the launching machine showed any evidence that the Young Engineers were there. The Engineers stood huddled in grade-level groups, their parents behind them. Dad and Uncle Mike waited behind our station. My uncle looked different from how he had looked at the other YE nights. He looked almost relaxed. He even smiled while watching Patrick clean up his station.

  “All right, Young Engineers! You all did a fine job tonight and I’m proud to say we have a new flight record for the Glider Launch! Give yourselves a round of applause for another great year!” the Launch Coordinator proudly bellowed. The Engineers and parents all clapped in a show of sportsmanship for one another. Even though his son was the crier, this guy hadn’t stopped smiling through his unshaven face.

  “Now, we’ve got a few trophies to give out before we leave, so let’s get to it. Before the top three flights are awarded, let’s recognize the creative part of tonight.”

  Patrick stood taller.

  “Part of being a Young Engineer is using your creativity. I was so impressed by all that I saw in this room tonight. You all deserve to be recognized. Really, really impressive,” he announced while surveying the room. “But one of you will take home the trophy for most creative.”

  Another dad moved in on cue, handing him the trophy.

  “And most creative goes to . . .”

  Patrick rocked on his toes.

  “Owen Grumbles and his police plane!”

  Applause.

  Not for Patrick.

  For Owen Grumbles, the Engineer who cried for ten minutes after dropping his glider.

  For Owen Grumbles, who graciously accepted the award for most creative glider, a police plane.

  Owen Grumbles accepted the award for most creative glider from the presenter, Launch Coordinator, and leader of the Young Engineers, Mr. Grumbles.

  “What?” Patrick said, drawing stares from those nearby. Uncle Mike nudged him with a flick of his elbow. Patrick only got louder. “Seriously?”

  “No,” Uncle Mike responded, shifting his weight.

  “No? Dad . . . I . . .” Uncle Mike gave him the “Lock it up” stare. “But . . . I can’t —”

  “Patrick, we need to be good spor —”

  “A freakin’ police plane? A police plane is the most creative glider here? No!”

  Here we go.

  The Young Engineers were about to get an education.

  “I watched his dad fix it! He cheated!” The words poured out uncontrollably now. “Those were the rules! He cheated! We couldn’t have parents help us, and his dad fixed it right in front of us!”

  He had a point.

  “Patrick, that’s enough. There’s nothing —”

  “His dad fixed it right in front of everyone. And he’s his dad! He’s seriously giving the award to his own son?”

  Episode or not, that’s two points for Patrick.

  “Enough. We’re leaving,” Uncle Mike said through his teeth while grabbing Patrick’s arm.

  “And a police plane? A police plane? That’s the most creative glider here? That’s more creative than my Area 51 alien craft?”

  That was three points for Patrick that no one could argue with. I stepped back to clear the path to the exit Uncle Mike was leading him toward. They made it a few steps until Patrick stopped in front of me.

  “Look at Jimmy’s glider! His stealth bomber is more creative than the ‘police plane’! At least he should have won!” Patrick yelled as he snatched my glider from my hands.

  No.

  No. I worked too hard on this.

  “At least Jimmy painted his himself! I bet that kid’s dad painted it for him, too!”

  “Patrick, give it back!” I yell just as loud, knowing the fate of my glider when held captive in his hands.

  “It’s not fair! Jimmy should’ve won, too! We didn’t get help from our parents!”

  Uncle Mike had a hand on each of his son’s arms. He wasn’t completely lifting Patrick off the ground, but Patrick’s heels no longer touched the floor.

  “Give it back. Now.” A hand was on my shoulder — my dad’s. I didn’t realize I’d moved a step toward the episode. This was new for me. I usually stayed away from the storm when I saw it coming. Not this time. I worked too hard on my glider. I wanted it back.

  “Jimmy, let it go,” he said, like I was the problem here. I wasn’t. I wanted my glider back.

  “Give it back. Now!” I said for everyone to hear.

  “But it’s not fair! It’s not!” Patrick said to the audience of open mouths watching the show.

  That was it. I didn’t care what happened.

  “I want my glider back! You break everything! Give it back!” I rejected my father’s cue to stand down and grabbed my glider. Dad quickly followed with both hands on my shoulders. I had a grasp on my glider now. I knew it wouldn’t survive, but at least I’d have tried to save it.

  Until now, I had let Patrick have his episodes and always had to be the bigger person, stepping aside from his path of destruction.

  Not tonight. I was going down with the ship.

  “Let go of it NOW!” I yelled for every person in the room to hear, especially my dad. Patrick got away with yelling. I could yell, too. I wrenched his hands toward mine, trying to free my glider. The wings snapped off while the body crashed to the floor.

  I didn’t save my work.

  Instead, I pulled the cord that started the engine inside my cousin.

  “But it’s not fair!” came even louder and from somewhere darker inside him. He was mad but not at me. Patrick jerked mightily from Uncle Mike’s grip. He ran. Usually during these episodes, he somehow knew where the exit was and headed that way. Not tonight. He had a target at the other end of the room.

  “It’s not fair!” he screamed while running toward the launcher machine. All the ingredients for a Patrick moment were now in place. He had an audience, an unstoppable burst of energy, and something he could destroy. A few seconds ago, the Young Engineers probably thought creativity was his strong suit. They didn’t know about his true gift. Destruction.

  Mr. Grumbles’s launching machine was a goner.

  Within seconds, Patrick’s outburst led him to the cart holding up the device. While not a big machine, I’m sure it wasn’t light. None of the other kids knew how strong Patrick could be.

  Or how scary.

  It took minimal effort for him to heave the launcher to the gym floor. He created many pieces out of one.

  Mr. Grumbles wasted no time in grabbing my cousin. He was no longer smiling.

  “What is your problem?”

  Patrick writhed like a fish on the dock, trying to escape his grip. Uncle Mike put a hand on Mr. Grumbles, allowing Patrick to escape and sprint to the exit door. The episode was almost over, but there were always aftershocks.

  Mr. Grumbles shoved Uncle Mike.<
br />
  “And what’s your problem?” he shouted at my uncle for all to hear.

  Uncle Mike had one foot in front of the other, shoulders slightly turned. It was his angry stance, the one that terrified me.

  “What kind of father lets his kid act like that?” announced the leader of the Young Engineers, a group created to teach respect, sportsmanship, and honor. Even though he was mad, I think he still liked all the eyes on him.

  “I’ll show you what kin —”

  “Mike!”

  Dad. Dad saw that Mr. Grumbles was about to get the scruff knocked off his face and stepped between the men, his hands on my uncle. “Patrick. We need to find him.”

  Uncle Mike broke his gaze from the leader of the Young Engineers and blinked hard.

  “Right,” he said to my dad. He looked at the faces watching, judging him. “We’re done here.” He marched straight to the same exit used by his son, and didn’t return.

  All eyes were on us now.

  “We’re leaving, too,” Dad sternly told the room.

  The walk back to our table took forever. A crowd’s attention can so quickly make time stand still.

  “All right, everyone, looks like we have two fewer members now!” Mr. Grumbles announced, his smile returning. Several of the dads laughed and began sharing perspectives of the scene that unfolded before them.

  “Jimmy, get your things. Get Patrick’s, too. Now,” Dad said to me, but looked at Mr. Grumbles.

  I gathered our supplies and stuffed them in my bag. Everyone was talking about us, parents and kids alike, as if we weren’t in the room. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt less respected.

  We left the gym, the onlookers, and the Young Engineers as quickly as possible. Dad was breathing heavily when we got in the car.

  “Should we help find Patrick?” I asked.

  “No.” His tone let me know to stay quiet until we got home. When we stopped in our driveway, he turned off the car, unbuckled the seat belt, and paused before looking at me.

  “That’s why you don’t interfere.”

  Understood. Lesson learned.

  When you stand up to Patrick, it only adds an earthquake to the tornado.